


Obsession

by GeorginaDespair



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Passion, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-27 04:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13873254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeorginaDespair/pseuds/GeorginaDespair
Summary: Wilson Fisk and his group want your shares in Rand Enterprises and you want to be free of your master. James Wesley has been tapped to acquire said shares by any means necessary. Takes place one year prior to the events in Daredevil.





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first reader story and I'm nervous as hell! I hope you enjoy the story and feel free to leave feedback. I'm always interested in improvement.

“Selling your shares in Rand Enterprises only makes sense. Think of the money you’ll be raking in!” The blatant enthusiasm in Edmund McPherson’s voice only sets your teeth on edge.

Whenever Edmund gets excited it usually means something is up – something underhanded. “We have a chance here to set you up for life.”

You stare past Edmund’s wrinkled visage and out the huge windows framing an impressive view of Manhattan. The morning is bright and the sky cloudless… a perfect early April day. The smell of lemon desk polish blends with the staler stench of old paper; beneath both odors is the faint trace of Edmund’s mossy aftershave and leather from his hand-tooled chair.

There are a myriad of places you could be amusing yourself at the moment. Yet you’re stuck here.

“Did you hear anything I just said, Sophie?”

Behaving rudely was frowned upon in the Couperin family. You are no different from your ancestors in that regard despite wanting to be somewhere else. Pasting a smile on your face, you pray it isn’t fake as hell. “Edmund darling,” You allow some of that sweet Southern sugar to color your voice; hoping the accent works magic and diffuses the situation. “I heard every word you said. My shares in Rand don’t amount to a seat on the Board of Directors. I can’t imagine why someone would offer to purchase a five percent share in Rand at such an exorbitant rate.”

Edmund’s ginger-snap eyes go comically wide. “Double the share price is hardly exorbitant, Sophie. Think of selling as a win-win scenario. All those hours spent on Skype with me and Mr.  
Owlsley going over the finances pertaining to those pesky shares just… evaporates.”

“Oh,” You release a genuine laugh. “Not only do the Rand shares disappear along with my dislike for dealing with them but I end up with a boatload of cash.”

The lawyer grins exposing a mouthful of perfect, pearly teeth. “Exactly so! Hence a win-win deal. Nine million dollars is a lot of money. Think of all you can do with that money.”

“What is the tax liability?”

Edmund squints and shrugs. “With all the write offs and tax loopholes, I doubt you’ll end up losing more than half-a-million.”

You sigh and fight the desperate desire to check your phone. “I want to meet the perspective buyer’s representative before I make up my mind.”

The color drains from Edmund’s face leaving him pale as ash from a long dead fire. “But Leland vouched for him…”

“Leland Owlsley is a twat. Deny it.”

Instead Edmund hooks a finger in his collar and starts tugging at it as though the fabric was attempting to strangle him. “I don’t think this is the best idea, Sophie.”

“I pay this firm to do not think,” You reply with as much kindness as possible. “Look, I just want to assure myself that the buyer is decent and everything is above board. Offering me double what those shares are worth seems shady.”

Edmund threw his hands up in the air with disgust. “I’ll get in touch with Leland and see if he can pull any strings with the other party.”

Guilt washes over you at the older man’s obvious distress. “I trust you, Edmund. Other people? Not so much.”

He nods and his wrinkled face droops a little. “I understand.” Edmund flips open his laptop and glances toward the door. “I promise to call with any news.”

You smile and stand; gathering your purse and jacket. “Thank you, Edmund.” The fact a clear dismissal has been issued does not dismay you. Edmund McPherson has been your lawyer since you turned eighteen and one of the Couperin family attorneys for twice that long.

Edmund might be irritated but he would get over it. He always did.

There are a few polite farewells to some of the PA’s and receptionists as you walk through the Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz Law Firm. Your boot heels click smartly against the polished marble floor. You only travel to New York when business allows – and sadly mostly for dealing with financial issues. The Couperin family resides – proudly – in New Orleans.

You check your phone and shake your head at the plethora of messages waiting.

~*~

Despite calling New Orleans home, you adore New York. The pace was furious, driven compared to the laid back lifestyle NOLA provides. The towering buildings like glass and steel canyons, the twinkling lights once night falls, the world famous museums, restaurants, and shops… there really was no place like NYC.

You enjoy New York so much that three years earlier you purchased a small apartment on West 58th Street. The building is small with only seven floors and built in 1910. You crave hominess and the one bedroom, one bath delivers. Touches of class are everywhere in the building: shining marble floors in the lobby and the hallways, crown moldings, and vintage light fixtures lovingly restored from the building’s original era.

The apartment you purchased for a ridiculous amount was only 750 square feet. You left the pearl gray walls untouched aside from two tasteful Monet lithographs and a large canvas of a painting by a NOLA artist featuring a giant peony made up entirely of tiny corporate logos. The furniture is simple and comfy, vintage pieces found here and there at local estate sales. 

You slam the door behind you and grin at the young man sprawled on the sofa nursing a beer. “Pick the lock?”

He snorts at your inquiry and raises one thick, dark eyebrow. “Yeah right! I think you’re going senile.”

A large grin edges your lips as you dump your purse on the granite peninsula separating the galley kitchen from the living room. Flopping on the sofa, you huff as a strand of hair falls into your eyes. “How dare you! I’m twenty-eight, not seventy-eight.”

“Old lady that forgets she gave me a spare key,” he teases before gently elbowing you in the side. “How long are we gonna be in New York, Sophie? Felipe is getting a fuckin’ serious case of ants in his pants.”

You sigh and scrub both hands over your eyes. “Shit! He left me half a dozen messages. I picked him to run the outfit while we’re up here and he’s been riding my ass since we landed at JFK.” 

As though to demonstrate your point the phone begins to trill with mounting desperation from the depths of your purse. “Just shoot me, Carlos.”

Carlos sniggers and takes another swig of his beer as the ringing phone finally dies away.

Groaning, you get up and retrieve the IPhone. The astounding number of voicemails nearly has you cross-eyed in shock. “I guess I should listen to some of these before Felipe goes over the edge.”

“Girl, I second that,” Carlos intones seriously. “No way in hell do I want him calling me.”

You flip him the bird and he laughs. The messages begin as soon as you key in the passcode. A few are from your grandmother, Meré Emmeline. The rest are all from Felipe freaking out. 

‘Those customized mustangs are done,’ Felipe’s thick, guttural voice rages in your ear. ‘Guess what? The buyer in Los Angeles backed out! He left some bullshit text saying he found better work on the cheap from a shop in Redondo Beach. Call me before we go bankrupt.’

You wave the phone at Carlos. “Duke Schwartz cancelled his order.”

The younger man’s dusky skin pales. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“Nope,” You pop the p as disgust floods your gut. “I have four classic, customized mustangs sitting at the garage with nary a buyer in sight.”

Carlos sets his bottle on the coffee table and stands. He scratches at his chin nervously. “Well that sucks. How are we going to handle this? Disrespect gets you screwed every time, sister. I know Felipe’s balls must be aching to hop the next flight to LA.”

You chew your bottom lip for a moment. “The last thing we need is your cousin going off the deep end. I need you to get on the next flight to NOLA and make sure Felipe doesn’t do anything crazy.”

He holds out a hand. “Hold up! I’m supposed to be here as your protection detail.”

“I don’t need protection,” You retort hotly before crossing your arms over your chest. “Call the airport and get a flight.”

“What about Javier?” Carlos asks with uncertainty shining in his large, soulful dark eyes. “He’s going to lose his shit and you know how he gets…”

You straighten your spine. “Let him. I am Javier’s business partner. When he gets back from his trip to Honduras we’ll have a chat.”

A string of Spanish curse words heat your ears as Carlos pulls out his phone and reluctantly makes the call to JFK.

Despite the strong front, you are nervous beyond words.

Javier Rojas is not a man to be crossed.

~*~

You wake the next morning to the trilling of your phone on the nightstand. The previous evening was spent reading the latest Game of Thrones novel and simultaneously draining a cheap, but tasty, bottle of rosé.

The light is like two slivers of liquid heat searing your retinas into oblivion.

A few wild fumbles and the phone falls into your hand. You release a tired sigh and thumb the accept button. “Hello?” You croak into the phone while collapsing back into the pillows. 

Edmund’s voice is precise as ever but clipped, harsh even. “Leland set up the meeting for this afternoon at Sakura at 1pm sharp on West 52nd.” His voice softens just a smidge. “The attire is upscale at this establishment. You’ll be meeting a gentleman named James Wesley. Be the charming, polite woman I know you to be and I’m sure this get together will be a smashing success.”

“Thank you, Edmund,” you breathe into the phone. “I’m sorry if I caused you a headache.”

He chuckles in response. “I doubt you’ll be thanking me when you see my billable hours for the month. Good luck, Sophie.”

You release a genuine throaty laugh and bid him goodbye before hanging up.

Tossing the phone into the sea of sheets, you stretch and ignore the headache booming at the back of your skull. A good cup of French Roast coffee would put you to rights along with a long hot soak in the deep clawfoot tub you so rarely use in favor of the tiled shower.

You only need to worry about what to wear. Fashion has never been your thing and as a result your wardrobe consists mainly of jeans and a plethora of simple tops in various shades of gray, ivory, and black.

Scrubbing your hands over your face, you rise.

~*~

A combination of strong coffee, hot bath, and long, leisurely process of getting ready for the meeting successfully rid you of the hangover headache you woke up with.

Sakura is a small, elegant Japanese restaurant in an upscale section of Hell’s Kitchen. The sign is red and black and covered with cherry blossoms. Two large windows showcase either side of a door with opaque squares of glass interspersed with squares of black lacquer giving you the impression the hardware was imported from Japan.

You pay the driver and step out of the taxi cab onto the sidewalk.

Part of you wants nothing more than to keep driving but the insatiably curious side wants to know who is offering to buy your shares in Rand Enterprises.

Smoothing the navy silk jacket you wear lends you a momentary sense of calm. Your reflection in the window reminds you that dressing for success has never been your forte – Couperin or not. Paired with the jacket are dark wash, designer jeans and a lovely maroon turtleneck sweater of the finest angora. Knee-high boots of black leather with a kitten heel compliments the look. 

You pulled your hair back into a simple, elegant ponytail and eschewed both jewelry and make-up aside from a quick swipe of nude lip gloss.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door of the restaurant and step inside to find…

The breath escapes your chest.

Sakura is empty aside from a maître d and four men: three appear to be bodyguards in expensive black suits and the third is seated at the best table in the house.

Before you can turn to leave; the maître d smiles at you. He is a lithe young man of Asian descent with a warm smile and happy eyes. “Can I help you, Madame?”

You return his smile nervously. “Yes, I hope so. My name is Sophie Couperin…”

“Ah,” he gives you a quick bow of respect. “Mr. Wesley is expecting you. Please follow me.”

In just under a minute you are standing beside the sumptuously set table and the elegant looking man occupying it.

The maître d bows at the waist. “Miss Couperin has arrived, Mr. Wesley.”

“Thank you,” Wesley responds before tearing his eyes away from his phone. He sets it down beside his water glass and rises. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Couperin. Do you enjoy wine?”

You are trying not to stare. This man is stunningly attractive – not in a Hollywood or professional model sort of way. He is solidly built with a frame that promises strength of body though not boasting abs of steel you suspect. Tall, far taller than you, he has broad shoulders and perfectly coiffed dark hair you suspect is very wavy beneath the hair gel he uses to tame it. 

“I do,” you respond before he thinks you foolish. 

James Wesley nods and speaks in what sounds like Japanese to the maître d who promptly disappears. Wesley skirts the table with flawless male grace, panther-like, and pulls out the chair for you. Once you sit, he returns to his own chair and lowers himself slowly. His eyes never leave your face. “I ordered a lovely Sauvignon Blanc, I hope you don’t mind. It pairs well with sushi.”

He is clothed in a perfectly tailored charcoal gray Hugo Boss suit with a pale blue silk pocket square and tie and immaculate white business shirt. The steel blue of his eyeglass frames only serve to enhance his strong features and piercing cerulean eyes.

The man might dress like a Wall Street stiff but he is intoxicatingly masculine.

You manage a tight smile. “I don’t mind at all. I have to warn you I haven’t felt well most of the day so I might not eat much… if anything.” The queasiness of your stomach keeps your conscience from proclaiming you an outright liar.

He is quiet a moment before deigning to speak. “I’m sorry to hear you are not well. Perhaps we should postpone business for another time.”

“No,” you keep your tone both calm and friendly. Reeking of desperation won’t get you the answers you seek. “I have to return to New Orleans soon so it’s best we talk today.”

Wesley studies you with care; his sharp eyes seem to drink you in as though he is savoring a fine, expensive scotch. “As you wish,” he remarks nonplussed as the maître d returns with the bottle of wine.

You study the dining room of the restaurant as the maître d pours Wesley a glass of wine. The room is stunning and very modern with dark hardwood floors and scarlet walls with tasteful prints of Japanese letters framed as artwork. There is nothing remotely garish or vulgar about the place.

“This will do nicely,” Wesley remarks as he sets down his glass on the table. “Thank you, Hoshi.”

The maître d refills his glass and yours before leaving the bottle at Wesley’s elbow and disappearing.

"I didn't realize Japanese restaurants stock wine."

"This one does," he answers lazily.

You stare at your glass before casting a nervous glance around the room.

James Wesley peers across the table at you once more. “I must confess you are nothing like I expected, Miss Couperin.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” You murmur before taking a sip of the wine. The beverage is tart, fruity, and gives just the barest hint of sweet on the tongue.

Wesley cocks his head. “I don’t know you well enough to give an opinion as of yet. I understand you are reluctant to part with your shares of Rand Enterprises precisely because the people I represent made a generous offer.”

You let your fingers curl around the delicate crystal stem of the wine glass. “There’s generosity and then there is bribery. Twice the going rate for stock seems a bit strange. As I explained to my attorney, I simply want to get a feel for the sort of people willing to make such an offer before selling.”

He sips from his wineglass as his laser-sharp eyes dissect you. After a long moment, Wesley sets down his glass. “Amassing the amount of stock you have in Rand Enterprises would take two to three years as most stockholders are exceedingly loyal to the company and tend not to sell… ever. Leland thought this would be a good opportunity for you to divest stock you have no interest in and make a tidy profit for your trouble.”

The maître d returns with two dun-colored bowls and sets one in front of each of you before disappearing.

“Why the interest in Rand?” You challenge.

Wesley raises one eyebrow. “Rand is a great investment,” he returns smoothly. “Tell me, Miss Couperin, how does the daughter of old money and privilege find her way into restoring classic cars for a living? I have tried to imagine every scenario but I am unable to divine the reason. Art, music, or politics, I can see. Cars, I cannot.”

You can’t stop the smile that slowly spreads across your face. “What do you love most in the world?”

There is a brief expression of confusion that clouds the man’s eyes before he masks it behind the cold granite of disinterest.

Love seems to be a taboo topic with him. “Passion,” you clarify. “What are you most passionate about?”

He tilts his head as though considering the question. “Work,” he responds tartly.

Your eyebrows rise. “That’s it?” The shock in your voice makes it sharp. “Wow, I would think a man like you might have interests beyond how you make a living.”

As if to make the moment more surreal, his phone gives a muted beep. He immediately picks it up and begins checking his messages. “Please forgive the interruption but I am expecting a supremely important call.”

Part of you forgives him because you love your work as much as he does his – whatever it is he actually does. The other part curses him a rude asshole for answering his phone at the table. Now you can imagine him as a cohort of Leland Owlsley the twat.

“That’s fine,” you retort in a soft voice while rising. “I’m going to excuse myself. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Wesley.”

Surprise filters through his bright, cutting gaze before he ruthlessly stamps it out. He sets the phone down and stands. “Forgive my rudeness. I shouldn’t have answered the phone while we were speaking…”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Please don’t apologize. I understand how it goes being a businesswoman. There are some things I need to take care of today anyway. Thank you for taking the time out of your schedule to meet with me.”

He pockets his phone and trails you to the door. Like a true gentleman, Wesley opens it before following you onto the sidewalk. “I must express my disappointment we will not be enjoying lunch together. The chef here is renowned for his skill in Japanese cuisine.”

You flag a passing cab and it slows to a stop. “Raw fish isn’t a favorite of mine, but the wine was delightful.”

Wesley bends and opens the back door of the cab with panache. The man is every inch the proper gentleman – aside from his faux pas with the phone. “What cuisine do you favor?”

A smile blossoms over your lips. “So many… Cajun, French, Chinese, Indian. Give me a good old fashioned pizza and some top notch fries and I’ll love you forever.”

He smiles slow and easy; a genuine expression that lights up his normally stern eyes. “One should never give up their secrets so easily.”

“That’s true,” you allow with a wide grin. “I like to keep the best secrets close to the vest.”

No sooner than you are seated in the cab does Wesley bend to maintain eye contact with you. For half-a-second you almost believe he is going to hop inside next to you. “I take it how you ended up in the car industry is one of those secrets?”

You give the cabbie directions before glancing in Wesley’s direction. “Indeed,” you relax against the seat. 

He pulls out his wallet and hands the driver fifty dollars. “This is to pay for the lady’s fare and a tip for getting her to the destination safely.”

You blush fiercely. “I can pay for…”

“I know,” he states in a low, kind tone. “Allow me to treat you since our meeting ended so abruptly.”

There is something about him that you find undeniably attractive… sexy even. A buttoned up businessman had never attracted you in the past. Perhaps his treatment of you is part of the equation. The fact he is physically appealing is certainly a component. 

You incline your head in a respectful nod. “Thank you. I’ll let Edmund know about the shares in a few days.”

Wesley gives you the barest smile tinged with regret before he nods and closes the cab door. He stays on the sidewalk staring after the taxi until the car rounds the corner.

You release a pent-up sigh. The part of your life allowing for romantic entanglements is long over.

Javier had seen to it with brutal finality.

Still, you think, daydreaming never hurt anyone.


	2. The city is a lonely place

No contact from Javier or Felipe meant that Carlos had done his job in calming Felipe down. Javier wasn’t due back from Honduras until next month… plenty of time for you to wrap up business in New York and hop a plane back to NOLA.

You spent the last few days wandering around Manhattan taking in a few museums. 

You caught up on your reading, ordered fabulous take-out from some top notch restaurants, and even visited Central Park. Time off was golden in your eyes; Javier worked you like a dog back home.

Still, you muse, taking in the city alone wasn’t all that appealing.

And that is precisely why you are attending a classic car show. At least you’ll be fully engaged and might even be able to do some business – two birds with one stone.

~*~

Off the books car shows are often for the elite. Only people who know exactly what to look for in the newspaper or on social media can recognize what is being advertised. The cars are in mint condition, the sellers only accept cash offers, and security is tight to keep all those luxury vehicles and the ultra-rich safe.

Music is pounding from inside the warehouse showcasing the cars: 1950’s Porsche and Aston Martins, 1960’s Mustangs, 1970’s Corvettes. Strobe lights are spinning and creating a rainbow atmosphere you dislike intensely.

A few people stroll by popping ecstasy and acting like juiced up jackasses at a rave rather than serious buyers and sellers.

You frown as intense perfume and cheap cologne mingle in the hot, fetid air of the building. Carefully, you wind your way through the crowd until you come to stand in front of a cherry 1961 Mustang convertible. The leather interior is perfection and though orange is not your ideal color; you feel money burning a hole in your pocket.

Shifting, you bend over to get a better look inside…

“Yo momma.” The male voice addressing you is young, brash, and dripping with disrespect. “The car ain’t for sale.”

You stand only to be confronted by a rap star wannabe. Raising one eyebrow, you cross your arms over your chest. “I’m not looking to buy,” you point out. “I like the work you put into the interior though. How long did it take to restore her?”

He raises one eyebrow and scratches his chin before answering. “Seven months and that don’t count the time finding proper parts and all.”

“This is a beautiful job,” you respond before taking a step around him.

To your surprise, he blocks you in with a toothy grin. “Aside from the paint job you mean, right?”

“Wow,” you snark. “I think you’re wasting your true talents as a mind reader. Where are you hiding the crystal ball?”

“Wise-ass,” he cocks his head. “What color would you have painted it? Pink?” 

You grin wolfishly. “Black or chili red. Most high paying buyers want the car of their dreams and a black or red mustang fits the bill. There isn’t anything wrong with orange except you’ve limited yourself to a narrow pool of candidates. So you’re either going to wait a while to make a sale or find yourself stuck with a cheap ass buyer trying to haggle down the price.”

The youth puckers his lips and graces you with a dead stare before stroking the car’s hood with his fingers in the type of caress saved for a lover. “Like I said, honey, this car ain’t for sale.”

Ignoring the derisive tone and clear insult in his voice, you lean a hip against the car door while folding your arms over your chest. “Why show the car at all?”

He shrugs; his expression mulish. “I just wanted to see if I had skills.”

You smile. “You’ve got skills. Want some free advice?”

“I guess so,” he breaths out.

Straightening, you meet his dark eyes without flinching. “Lose the asshole attitude and you’ll go far in this business.” He shifts as though embarrassed and you feel a pang of pity. The kid is barely out of his teens. “Half the trade is interacting with buyers and you need to understand that. Work on how you treat people. Good luck to you.” With that you step around him and head for the door; suddenly you are exhausted.

To your surprise the kid is at your side keeping pace with you. 

He glances at you with earnestness. “Can you teach me about dealing with peeps?” He steps in front of you and holds out his hand. “My name is Ashar Walker.”

You stare at his hand a moment. Soon enough you’ll be back in NOLA and hip deep in work. Why take on this clown? Yet you see something in his eyes… you see yourself at his age. Allowing a soft smile to creep over your lips, you take his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ashar. I’m Sophie Couperin.”

Ashar’s eyes bulge and his hand tightens on yours so hard the blood is cut off to your fingers. “Are you shittin’ me? As in Couperin Motors out of New Orleans?”

“I’ll need those fingers, tough guy,” you respond and Ashar releases you with a mumbled apology. “Yeah, I’m that Sophie Couperin. I have to say I’m surprised you’ve heard of me.”

Disdain trickles over Ashar’s features. “Why? Think I’m too stupid to read?”

You arch one eyebrow. “No, I didn’t say that. I’m surprised you’ve heard of my business because we primarily cater to extremely high end clientele. Press is not something I court and my business doesn’t either.”

In your world word of mouth among the super-rich was far better than some stupid TV show like that hack Jesse James enjoyed. You do not give interviews and all press is kept far away from Couperin Motors.

Ashar frowns. “Couperin Motors was in Car and Driver magazine a few years back. Little article but I caught it. Pretty damn dope. I’m surprised you don’t do more interviews.”

“I didn’t give an interview that time,” you clarify with a grimace. In fact the intrepid reporter who insisted on writing the piece was somewhere at the bottom of bayou courtesy of Javier Rojas. “The guy talked to a few of our clients, took a picture of our garage, and voila produced an article.”

The young man snorts. “Man, free publicity is hard to come by.”

Chuckling, you head straight out into the cool Manhattan spring air. “When you’re good at what you do publicity isn’t needed, Ashar.”

He follows with his fists jammed deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans. “Can you help me?”

You turn and regard him with a jaundiced eye. It had been years since you lifted a pinky to help anyone. The idea was charming, if risky. “Sure,” you allow in a slow, tight voice. “Meet me at Starbucks on West 48th Street tomorrow at 10 am sharp.”

Ashar looks offended. “Starbucks?”

“Yup,” you return in a sharp voice. “I prefer to meet in a public place that serves a lot of coffee. Is that a problem?”

He shrugs and gives you a nod. “I’ll be there.”

You flash him a brisk wave. “See you tomorrow, Ashar.” You don’t wait but start walking toward the street where your taxi is still parked as you instructed (and paid a mint for the privilege).

~*~

The taxi drops you off in front of your building quarter of eleven. No one is on the street and you feel like the last person on earth. It is a lonely, piercing feeling capable of gutting a person. 

Loneliness is a sensation you grew to accept over the last five years but isn’t any less cutting.

You give the driver a tip before glaring at the front doors of your New York home.

A car door opens not far away drawing your attention.

Three parking spaces down from where you stand a black SUV hugs the curb. One of the black-suited men from Sakura has exited the vehicle and opens the back passenger door with a flourish. A moment later a familiar figure steps out to face you.

James Wesley is standing with his hands resting at his sides. There is expectation in his countenance along with a friendly smile as though he’s genuinely glad to see you. He cuts a fine figure in his navy blue Brooks Brothers suit and black Gucci loafers. The light illuminates his scarlet check silk tie and matching pocket square.

The chilly breeze ruffles his hair almost playfully.

“Miss Couperin, I hope I’m not intruding.”

You feel like a dud in the clothes you threw on before going out: artfully ripped jeans, battered sneakers, olive green Henley, and black peacoat. A huge part of you wants to sink beneath the pavement. Taking a deep breath, you step forward and cross your arms over your chest.

“You’re not intruding,” you state in a careful voice. “Can I help you?”

Wesley cocks his head as though sensing your discomfort. “I had hoped to make amends for my rudeness at Sakura by taking you to a late dinner.” He gives you a rueful smile. “Please allow me to apologize for showing up on your doorstep at this time. I clearly overstepped the bounds of politeness.”

You watch as he moves toward the SUV. From deep inside a voice rises – one that has urged you toward every fuck up in your life. “Wait!”

He hesitates and turns his head toward you with question in his eyes.

“I haven’t made up my mind about the shares,” you admit. 

Wesley smiles at you. “I expected you were still mulling the sale.”

You take another step and clasp your hands tightly together. “I’ll accept your dinner offer if we don’t speak about business.” When his brow rises, you blush beet red. “That is if the offer still stands.”

He nods at the driver who quickly skirts the SUV and gets behind the wheel. Wesley straightens his posture and holds out his hand. “I would be delighted to have you as a dinner companion, Miss Couperin.”

You shuffle forward and stare at his hand a moment. Dexterous, beautifully manicured, and dusted on the back with sparse dark hair; that hand was incredibly masculine. Nervously you settle your hand in his and swallow a sudden lump in your throat as something masquerading as electricity passes between you both.

To your surprise, James Wesley felt it.

He is staring down at you with an appraising look and surprise in his gaze. His hand tightens gently over your own and he clears his throat. “We should go, Miss Couperin.”

“Sophie,” you correct in a soft voice. “Please call me Sophie.”

Wesley’s lips quirk at one corner and his cool blue eyes soften. “If we are on personal time, I insist you call me James.”

You smile back and slide past him into the darkened interior of the SUV. Catching a hint of James’ cologne, you inhale and enjoy the scent. He smells of mossy glens, the deep, smoky incense of sandalwood, with just a hint of a tart, newly split grapefruit leaking its juice. The smell suits him and is pleasant, not overpowering.

James is beside you and the SUV is in motion. He stares straight ahead. “Francis, take us to the Royal Dragon. That will be all.” The dark wall of glass separating the driver’s compartment from us comes up in a near silent hum. Only once you are truly alone does James glance in your direction. “I took the liberty of renting out a Chinese restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen for our meal.”

“That sounds expensive,” you lament.

He smirks. “The price was quite reasonable, I assure you. I’ve spent more for one evening at Le Cirque.”

“I avoid places like Le Cirque.” The words flowing from your mouth are as bitter as unripe grapes. Expensive five star restaurants always proved to be shit shows of the rich and rude in your opinion. 

The man beside you tilts his head just a fraction, but otherwise shows no surprise. “May I ask why?”

You shrug and face his gaze head on without wilting. “I’m not into dressing up like a Barbie doll.” Or being judged by people who believe, genuinely, they are better than everyone around them.

“Ah,” James draws out the word as though amused. “I’ll make a mental note you warned me of a fashion phobia.”

His clear enjoyment in teasing you draws a smile to your lips. “I clean up nicely, I’ll have you know. I just don’t enjoy playing dress up.”

He gives you a subtle nod. “Not everyone enjoys fashion. I’ve always believed so long as a person is clean, well-groomed, and presentable a lack of funds to afford high end retail or distaste for fashion itself shouldn’t count against them.”

The attitude was enlightened – especially for a New York businessman.

You hide your surprise. “I never thought I’d live to hear such words from a Manhattan native.”

James chuckles and before he can respond a trill comes from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Please accept my apologies for the interruption.” He takes out the phone and answers in a respectful, almost reverent voice. “Yes?”

You look out the window beside you in the effort to give James some privacy. 

He listens for some time before answering. “I see. The news is most unfortunate. I can certainly arrange your request to be fulfilled. Do you need me to come into the office this evening?”

Disappointment wells up in your gut. Despite not knowing James Wesley very well, you certainly want to rectify the situation. If he is called into work you had no idea when the two of you might see one another again.

“Are you sure?” James asks before falling silent for a moment. “I understand. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Relief pours over you and leaves confusion in its wake. In a few weeks you’ll be back slaving away for Javier in NOLA. Nothing can possibly come from spending time with James Wesley aside from a major case of regret.

He clears his throat and smiles when you look in his direction. “I’m free this evening and I turned off my phone.”

Logically you know it would be best to demand he return you to your apartment and never see him again. 

Instead of doing the smart thing, you grin. “Excellent.”

~*~

The Royal Dragon is a relatively small establishment that is a clean, lovely space with a friendly manager and staff. As before at Sakura, there are men in black suits standing a discreet distance away from the center table you and James occupy. Instead of four, there are only two men.

After ordering steamed dumplings, moo goo gai pan, orange chicken, and a massive bed of pork fried rice the waiter departs leaving you and James staring at one another. The happy chords of Chinese orchestra music play in the background softly lending a sense of intimacy to the scene.

James relaxes in his chair and watches you with eager eyes as though attempting to divine some unspoken truth. “Do you like spending time in New York?”

“I love it,” you admit. “The city is so different from New Orleans but in a good way. I wish I could spend more time here.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “Why can’t you?”

“Work,” you respond and look away to gather your thoughts. Any mention of Javier would put James in danger. “I have so much on my plate traveling to New York is a rare luxury.”

James nods. “I understand your sentiment on the subject. Work is paramount to most people and I am one of them.”

The waiter brings you both your drinks: Wesley a scotch on the rocks and a Shirley Temple for you.

He is grinning openly at your colorful mocktail. “I take it you aren’t fond of alcohol.”

“Once in a while I indulge but I like to keep a clear head. Are you laughing at my beverage choice?”

“Maybe just a little,” James admits before leaning his elbows against the table. “So you only come to New York on business?”

You nod and sip the Shirley Temple before leaning back in your chair. “Essentially, yes. My family has a great deal of financial holdings centered here in New York so I come into town a few times every year to deal with our assets in person. Have you always lived in New York?”

He shakes his head. “I lived in rural Massachusetts when I was a child. We moved to New York for my father’s job and never looked back. This city is my home. One day I hope to help improve it.”

Intrigued, you study him and see only sincerity in his gaze. “How so?”

There is a moment of silence in which James Wesley seems to be wrestling with something in himself. He finally speaks and his voice is strong, compelling, and utterly serene. “My employer is a good man and he sees possibilities for this city so many overlook. Opportunity to help those in need and build a strong commercial enterprise system that benefits not only the wealthy and those who run said businesses but the poor. I have great faith this man will do all he says and more so I work as hard for him as I can.”

James Wesley was good at giving information without actually telling a person anything of importance.

You feel him tick upward in your esteem. Wesley is loyal and that counts for something in your book. “Is this good man the person who wants my shares in Rand Enterprises?”

James laughs – a deep, rich sound that sends shivers of pleasure up your spine. “He runs a consortium and they collectively want the shares but yes, he is a driving force.”

“That sounds mysterious,” you state before taking a long sip from your drink.

He smirks but says nothing as the waiter delivers plates of food to the table. Once the young man is gone, James gestures for you to dig in. “Ladies first.”

You take a little bit of everything before watching him take heartier portions. “Thank you for dinner.”

James sets his plate on the table and stares you in the eye. “You’re more than welcome. I hope we can do this again before you leave for New Orleans. It isn’t often I meet someone who holds my interest.”

Shock stabs at you and you jerk your chin up sharply as you draw back. “You don’t date?”

He takes a bite of the dumpling he holds expertly in his chopsticks. The entire time he chews he studies you with a thoughtful expression. After swallowing, James lets out a little snort filled with mirth. “Like you, I find time a luxury. I do see people on occasion but as I stated they rarely hold my interest longer than one or two nights at most. Do you have a companion in New Orleans?”

“No.” The answer is both honest and raw.

James picks this up and sighs. “Being alone is a strength on one hand and on the other unpleasant at best.”

“Yeah,” you answer while staring at your plate.

“Did I upset you?”

Shrugging, you set to eating despite a now diminished appetite. “No.”

As though sensing the untruth you loosed, James launches into conversation on topics as far ranging as art, language, and his travels to different countries in the course of his life. Within ten minutes he coaxes you back into speaking and within twenty you are enjoying yourself more than you have in years.

Yet Javier is lingering in the back of your mind like a slow acting poison.


End file.
